Swimmer, Sleeper, Starchild

swimming in the sun
I'm carefree
a wave
a desire
a contented existence

the corona roils, black spot belching
to spew out the seed of life
skipping a stone across the heliosphere
into a void

I'm shivering
cold
alone
suspended in a block of ice

convulsing, then, in an enzyme wash
I fade away

am here sleeping
awaiting the distant day
when I can again returnevolved lifea new consciousness
to swim the beckoning sun.

Ω

WC Roberts lives in a mobile home up on Bixby Hill, on land that was once the county dump. The only window looks out on a ragged scarecrow standing in a field of straw and dressed in his own discarded clothes. WC dreams of the desert, of finally getting his first television set, and of ravens. Above all, he writes.